


Long Live The King (Thor 3)

by trix_lyesmith



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Break Up, Brothers, Childhood Sweethearts, Deceit, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Father/Son, Flashbacks, Frigga Feels, Gen, Imprisonment, Lies, Magic, Memory Loss, Norse Bro Feels, Old Flames, Old Friends, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Treachery, Treason, and whole lot more lies, basically any character that isn't in the mcu Thor that should be, childhood flashback, power lust, throne envy, young loki, young thor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trix_lyesmith/pseuds/trix_lyesmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Events following 'Thor The Dark World', inspired by TDW soundtrack.</p><p>What does Loki get up to next? Who does he enlist as his allies? Where is Odin and what has happened to him? Will Thor find out about his brother's treachery?</p><p>Well hopefully, we'll get to all that, but throw a few other spanners into the works at the same time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is just for fun, a whole host of crazy ideas I've thrown together; my ultimate fantasy for Thor 3 – although the majority of it is ridiculously unlikely, hey – that’s what fanfic’s for! :)
> 
> Got the idea for the ‘Prologue’ section whilst listening to ‘Origins’ from the Dark World soundtrack, so you might want to listen to it or play it whilst reading it...not sure if it fits anymore as it’s a lot longer than it was originally.
> 
> Posting this a bit prematurely in the hope that it will keep me writing it - have a lot of other chapters currently at various stages so stay tuned.

_Asgard: present day_

She awoke to a tumult and commotion outside so fierce it drew her instantly to the window. She had been dozing lightly; one arm propping her head at her desk, the other draped across her thighs, feet resting upon an upturned stool. Now, however, she stood to attention. Milky white moonlight filtered through the enormous arched window of her bedchamber, and gently bathed all Asgard below it.

Peering out into a night sky doubly lit by stars and constellations, she saw the enemy approaching at the gate, their horses gilded with silver armour, their banners whipping in the wind, their men roaring and chanting in rhythm with the beat of hooves upon the ground.

Quickly she fastened her breastplate, strapped her greaves to her wrists, grabbed her dagger and pulled her cloak around her, just as a handful of royal guards entered her chambers to escort her to the fray.

With all due haste she was marched down corridors, flanked by ten or more Einhejar bearing torches, their golden cloaks billowing behind them, their helmets, armour and deadly spears glittering amber and gold in the flickering torchlight. She kept her gaze focused ahead of her, her face frozen, diplomatically void of emotion, chin tilted back slightly, a perfect vision of calm and collected. But a drum beat fiercely in her chest and her mind swam.

She’d pulled her thick, green-velvet cloak tightly around her, so that the fur which lined the uppermost edge crested her shoulders and brushed nobly against her cheeks, her hair was pulled back in a twisted fishtail braid, but strands had escaped in her fleeting sleep, and now fluttered about her face as they swept through the palace. Her boots clattered on the marble floor; every step empowering.

Up ahead she caught sight of Fandral the Dashing, looking rather pale and dishevelled - clearly being shaken awake and drawn into battle at this hour was not his idea of a fun evening jaunt. As the convoy approached he took a few stumbling steps toward her to enable himself to get closer, and to ensure he could keep up. He held his own helmet tightly under one arm; his trusted and well-used battle sword fixed to his hip.  
“My Lady...” he began, but she swiftly interjected – she couldn’t be doing with airs and graces at such a desperate hour.  
“-Fandral, what is the situation?”  
“Dwarves of Nidavellir my Lady – a small rabble from what our outriders have gathered...”  
She almost stopped dead in her tracks, and if it wouldn’t have sent the trail of Eihenjar following around and behind her sprawling to the floor with a tremendous clattering then she would have done so. Instead she kept up her pace and cocked her head to one side, eyeing him, “You call the three hundred horsemen I spied through my chamber window a ‘small rabble’?” She scoffed.  
Fandral gave a taut grimace but said nothing.  
She straightened haughtily, fixing her eyes front and centre and disregarding him in the same movement.  
“See that the Warriors are ready – and Fandral?”   
The pair finally came to a stop beside an alcove, at the top of the steps to the entrance of the palace; the Eihenejar continued past her to take their positions for battle. More soldiers began filling out of nearby corridors and joining the ranks.  
“Ensure the King is not disturbed. We do not need his...assistance.” She spoke delicately, with an intake of breath that went unnoticed by her companion.  
He gave a swift nod and took to his heels.

Amora, The Enchantress, daughter of the World Tree, Apprentice of the Norns, drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, allowing her limbs to tremble briefly, before returning to her calm, collected state. Her expression became a battle mask, a facade - unreadable.

She turned deftly and stepped onto the top stair; the precipice of war.  
Her soldiers were assembled beneath her in neat rows, facing the enemy, poised for battle. This was a mere skirmish, she reassured herself. They had more reserves should it go any further. It would be dealt with swiftly, and she could return to other business. Nothing to fear.

Wringing her hands, she took one sweeping gaze to her left, and then to her right. She could see the cannons, manned and ready. She looked out across Asgard and saw the silver longboats ready for deployment.  
A figure stepped into the light beside her, tall, willowy, with long, braided blonde hair, the moonlight shone from her battle gear as it would upon stilled water. She moved so swiftly and gracefully, you would barely know of her presence.   
“Brünnhilde...” Amora acknowledged, without turning, and the Valkyrie stood attentively to her side and said nothing.

A split second of suspense passed as her army stilled and the enemy faced them, she looked upon each of them - some bold, some fearful. 

“Fire at will.” She muttered.

Without hesitation, Brünnhilde swept gracefully down the staircase, mounted her winged steed, and sounded the horn for battle.

And Amora stood watching from her pedestal as all hel broke loose. 

Her men were the first to surge forward; Nidavellir’s warriors were weak, and barely trained for battle. They would lose this day, and sorely regret it. Asgard had kept them safe all these thousands of years, and _now_ they were rebelling?

She wanted to turn from the carnage but she couldn’t. Her eyes had fixed to it, she had given the command to begin this bloody battle, and she would force herself to witness the damage done. She stood tense and unmoved. She moved to a balcony, rested her arms upon it, and drummed her fingers against the balustrade.

 

“Trouble...my love?”  
A shiver ran down her spine. Her eyes lost focus, she blinked, and the noise of battle faded from her ears.

A hand rested upon the small of her back. Every muscle in her body tensed at his touch and she shut her eyes briefly.  
After a few moments, she turned slowly and her eyes met his eyes. Her soul touched his soul. She was not afraid of him. Not in the least. She was afraid of herself. Of what became of her when she was with him. Of what terrible things they would achieve together. And how little they would care.  
Yes. That frightened her.

His green eyes bored into hers, his steady and distant expression matched hers, gave nothing away.  
“Not at all” she managed, in a small voice, trying to keep any emotion from touching her face.

His face split into a slick, sly grin as he looked toward the battle and then back to her.  
“I should think not.”

She watched him walk away, his cloak billowing behind him. Tendrils of fear crept across her frozen mask and cracked it.

She looked back out towards chaos and wondered how she could have gotten in so deep.


	2. Old Enemies Make The Best Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amora is summoned to the All Father's throne room. And an unexpected face makes a re-acquaintance.

_Asgard: ten months ago_

Her knees hit the marble with a violent crack, jolting every bone in her body and causing her to gasp.  
She daren’t cry out, daren’t show any weakness. She made a muffled ‘hmmphf’ of pain and jammed her eyes shut until the pain subsided.

She hung her head, hands clasped together in front of her bound in chains; in this position she looked as a praying Midgardian looks when they beg for forgiveness from their gods. She had studied them many times, ‘The Religious’ they were called, and their supplication had always made her laugh.  
Now, however, was not the time for laughter.  
She despised looking weak but held her tongue, and hid her grimace beneath a curtain of hair.

A familiar voice cut through the silence, resonating through her mind and retrieving long-forgotten memories, “I asked you to bring her to me unharmed.”  
The underlying rage in that calm and delicate voice reminded her of someone with a far different temperament to that of the person speaking, someone she had almost been made to forget by her captors, her supposed ‘tutors’, but whom she had always pressed to the back of her mind, never to be erased....

She was aware, without actually being able to see them, that the soldiers clutching her reins were shifting and looking at their feet, or perhaps at each other, with embarrassment. Of course, they hadn’t been responsible for the beatings she’d received since arriving back in Asgard after years of absence, or during her unceremonious containment in their jail cells. But they accepted the blame nonetheless – you cannot argue with the King of Asgard.

She allowed herself a sly glance upwards; she rolled her eyes up as much as she could without having to lift her head, and through a curtain of dirty, brittle, blonde hair she could just make him out -- the All-Father. 

High upon his dais, seated on his regal throne, the illustrious staff Gungnir clutched upright in one hand, the other draped over the arm of the seat - outwardly, he was just as she remembered him; except he seemed shrunken – weaker, perhaps. His brow was etched with concern, as though a heavy weight rested upon it. His one good eye was still full of wisdom, but seemed to lack something. As though a light had winked and gone out.

He stamped the butt end of Gungnir upon the ground and gave a small animal-like grunt toward his soldiers, as a pack-leader might warn off other wolves that had angered it, and made a hand gesture to shoo the guards off.

Again, a moment passed wherein the guards paused and looked to one another cautiously, before dropping her chains gently to the ground and stepping away.

Her wrists were aching with the weight of her cuffs, they’d unmercifully bit into the bare flesh. The cuff that clung around her neck dragged her shoulders down. She suddenly became aware that she was shaking. She tried to control it, tried to stop the shuddering, but found that she could not. It frustrated her. Her mind was not as it once had been, and her body was not entirely in her control.

Moments passed and not a word spoken. She dared not lift her head, so instead she knelt, cowering there, continuing to peep upwards at the situation before her.

And then, to her surprise, Odin rose from his seat and began to move toward the top step of his dais.  
All at once two guards moved from their posts at either side of his throne, as though to aid him in his descent, but he shooed them away as he had her jailers.  
He dropped one foot down a step, but left the other at the top.  
“You may rise.” He gestured towards her.

Amora’s brow creased.  
This time, her head tilted fully upwards, and she beheld the All Father in all his regal glory and made eye contact.  
Had he just-  
Did he just address _her_?

Instead of rage and wrath, she saw only a bemused half-smile upon his face. And then he dipped his head into a long nod of approval.

Amora dropped her gaze and frowned once more, mulling over the request as though trying to figure out the catch, and then, after brief hesitation, she attempted, rather awkwardly, to pick up her tattered skirts, her chains rattled as they clashed against the floor, her legs refused to work and almost didn’t support her – the knee joints crying out in agony at being forced into use, but eventually she managed to pull herself into a standing position.

She did not curtsy. Prisoner she may well be, and in danger of having her head lopped off at any minute, likely, but to pay courtesies to a King she did not worship would’ve been like a rat giving fealty to a nest of vipers.

And boy, was she stubborn. 

Odin turned away disinterestedly as she stood. He left another few moments of silence hanging torturously between them and then continued his descent.

“Amora.”

There was such satisfaction in that voice, a sort of smugness and charm, as though he were pleased to have her standing in his throne room, rather than disgusted, as he should have been, to have someone quite capable of lopping _his_ head off, given half the chance, stand before him.

“And so... you have returned to Asgard.” He paused, seemingly waiting for an answer.  
Quietly she mumbled, “Yes’sir.”  
“And our... _idiotic_ soldiers threw you into the jails because they did not recognise you as a valid citizen, is that correct?”  
He’d pronounced the word ‘idiotic’ with a punctuated weariness that indicated that, currently, the Eihnejar were not particularly in his favour. Even now as he looked to them with dissatisfaction they cowed their heads ashamedly.  
“Yes’sir” She replied, quicker than her last utterance.  
“Good.”  
Her head snapped up.  
“And quite right too – they may not know how _dangerous_ you are, but _I_ certainly do. They have, although inadvertently, done me a great favour.”  
Amora’s confusion must have been plain as day upon her face; Odin chuckled and came even closer to her. He took one of her hands in his and she was inwardly repulsed.  
“If they had not captured you, I may never have known you were skulking about in my lands unchecked. And I couldn’t possibly allow _that_ to happen.”  
She looked up into his face. No - she looked into his good eye. And froze.  
There was something familiar there. It glittered, it pulled on the strands of her fading memories – memories the Norns had tried to prise from her mind so that they might ‘rebuild’ her so they said, or, in reality, find out more about the World Above - and it’s royal family to be precise.  
This was not the eye of Odin.  
This was.  
This was... 

Then his appearance shifted. His portly stature slimmed, his dead eye returned swiftly to life, his face narrowed, his hair darkened, his chin became clean-shaven and his apparel changed from reds and golds to blacks and greens...

A shiver ran down her spine.

“Loki.” She breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the track listing for TDW more or less in 'movie order' so this chapter came straight out of my prologue idea whilst listening to 'The Trial of Loki.' And, yeah, sort of mirrors the way Loki was brought into TDW. I like stories that go in patterns and circles.  
> Also, the 'ten months ago' thing could be likely to change, as I haven't worked the entire time-scale out yet. Sorry. :S


End file.
